


Siamese Twins

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Come Swallowing, Daddy Kink, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herc and Scott grew up with nothing but each other, but now Herc's got himself a new family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siamese Twins

Sometimes, he watches them, and feels a burning jealousy. Herc throws Chuck in the air, the tiny boy squealing and happy, his mother snapping pictures. Herc catches his son, presses kisses to his freckled nose, and laughs with that deep growl. 

So he watches them, good old Uncle Scott, from the sidelines, trying to make himself small as he swallows his jealousy and hides his pain behind his beer. He drains the bottle, finds that he'd already drained the rest of the pack, and decides to head back in. 

Not like Herc was paying attention to him anyways.

*****

It's dark. Another six pack gone, and there's just this emptiness in his stomach. Scott stretches over the guest bed, wondering why he had even bothered coming. Of course, he knew why. Herc had called him. Herc had asked for him to be here. Herc had wanted to spend some of the rare free time he had away from the RAAF with all of his family under the same roof, the way it should be. 

Scott could never deny Herc anything. 

Once, long ago, it had just been the two of them. No, that's not right. They had had parents, of course, in the beginning. The two men had sprouted from the same womb, like tree limbs out of a single seed. They'd had parents, and a house, and each other. 

Orange flames and screams, and then they had only had each other. 

Herc had been old enough, strong enough, to take on the task of being mother and father to his little brother. He had watched over him, took care of him, found them a new home (tiny flat, broken lift, long walk to the bus stop). Held him when he cried. Worked hard to buy him food and clothing. Made him fucking thankful for every ounce of attention and turned a blossoming bad boy into a good kid. Herc was everything to Scott. _Is_ everything to Scott. 

He'd been nearly fifteen when they'd escaped the fire, but his memories of mum and dad were clouded and faded compared to the bright burning dream of being Herc's sole focus, his brother, his son, his good little boy. _His._

Scott knows that Herc doesn't love his little Chuck the way he loved Scott. His eyes are different when he looks at that little boy, full of pride and a lifting-up feeling, like dad used to look when he watched his boys scuffle and play. Not at all like the way Herc looks at him-- _looked_. 

Fuck, he didn't think it would hurt this bad, to not see the possession, the pure fucking **NEED** in his brother's face when they hugged. He's being held at arm's length, far enough the wife suspects nothing and the child acts oddly cool with this stranger he's supposed to call "uncle." If Scott had known it would hurt this bad, he would have stayed away. 

No. That's a lie. He would have come anyway. 

Scott rolls onto his belly, letting his feet dangle over the edge as he imagines he's back at home, in that dingy room, on the bed too small to fit them both. He imagines that it's his birthday, that he'd woken up to another growth spurt, his legs too long and the floor too far away. He imagines Herc's voice praising him for how big his boy had grown, how he was taller than his old man now. But Scott was still Herc's little boy. 

He feels sick. Too drunk for this early in the evening. Maggots writhe in his belly, and he tastes bitter almonds on his lips. It's been a week, now, that he's been here, and the nights aren't getting any better. Maybe he should leave. Maybe he should have never come back. 

A knock at the door, and they don't wait for any noise before the knob turns and the hallway light stabs through the gloom. "C'mon Sleeping Beauty. You'll miss out on the food." The door closes with a soft click, the lock sliding into place a second later. 

Scott rolls over on his back, his feet bouncing at the end of the bed. He doesn't bother looking over at Herc. He'd done his watching for the day. "Not 'ungry." 

"Steaks. Just the way you like them." 

Scott clenches his eyes, grimacing until his cheeks start to hurt. He shakes his head. 

The edge of the bed dips. A big hand rubs a slow circle over his stomach. "My boy's got tummy troubles?"

Scott's heart flutters in his chest, and for a second he thinks he's going to scream. He brings his hand down, meaning to push Herc away, but instead, he's slipping his fingers around his wrist, holding him still, holding him close. Can't let him get away. 

It's an opening, he knows. A tentative gift, given with the same openness as Herc had always given it. He leaves the choice in Scott's hands, letting him lead despite the fact that the rules, and the power, belong to Herc. 

_Everything_ belongs to Herc. 

Scott half-opens one eye, finding Herc's face in the darkness. He knows the expression that would be there, the special kind of need that he hasn't seen in such a long time. He wants to see it, now, but he can't bring himself to turn on a light. 

He's too drunk. He feels too out of control, but nods anyway, pressing Herc's hand into his belly. "Yes, Daddy." 

An intake of breath, and then Daddy's hand is moving again, just enough to tease a single finger against the line of skin exposed between his shirt and jeans. His skin is rough, calloused, different than how he remembers. Daddy's been working hard these past years, supporting his new family. 

That burn of jealousy rises up again, the maggots chewing at his skin. Scott whimpers. 

"How's my little boy feeling?"

Said a million times, the soft-hearted 'bro' shifted into a heated 'boy' so subtly over the months of close quarters and shared grief until it had felt strange to be called anything else. Until it **HURT** to be called anything else. 

"Hurt, Daddy," Scott says, his voice going quiet and soft and bruised around the edges. He's honest, though. He learned long ago he couldn't lie to his Daddy. 

"Would some warm milk make you feel better?"

Scott's stomach spasms, and salt burns at his eyes. God, he wants this. Misses this. Wants it so badly. "Yes, Daddy. Please."

The hand remains on his stomach, the finger gently slipping under the band of his jeans. He hears movement, feels the bed become lighter. "Daddy needs his hand back for a moment, son."

Scott whimpers, but pulls his hand back, pushes his fist into his mouth and bites on a knuckle to keep the noises from escaping. 

"No, be a good boy," a noise of a zipper, fabric. "Good boys leave their mouths open for their medicine." 

Slick wet noise as he pulls his hand out, swallows against the saliva suddenly filling his mouth. 

"Now come closer, little boy." 

Scott pushes his fist under the pillow, turns on his side and scoots to the edge of the bed. He smells the sharp scent of his Daddy's arousal, a strong masculine scent he's been missing. Things rush back, and he's now small, hurt, begging for his Daddy's medicine. "Please, Daddy, I need it." 

"Shh, baby boy. I've got you." 

A hand in his hair, and it feels strange because Daddy never lets it grow this long. Waves tangle and catch, sending little shockwaves through his brain and into his spine. Scott opens his mouth, breathes in, relaxes. 

"Good boy," Daddy praises, as he slides his cock into his boy's hungry mouth. 

Oh, god, the way it fills him, and it's just the head. He swallows around the weight, shaping his tongue milk a few drops from the sensitive slit, pulling them right into his belly.

Daddy groans, a deep noise that rumbles under his skin like distant thunder. "My good little boy." 

The tears burn, spilling over to join the drool that escapes his lips as Daddy pushes deeper, following the line of his boy's throat. Scott wants to speak, wants to thank his Daddy for everything, _everything_ , but with his mouth full he can't, so he shows it. Shows it in the way he moves his tongue, presses his lips, swallows everything down. 

"Love you so much, baby boy. Love you." 

It's balm on his burns, a bandage on his wounds. The feel, the touch, the taste, the sound. Once, long ago, it had been just this, only this, but now he wants more. 

He leans back, holding Daddy in place with a hand on his hip. He swallows the mixture of liquids on his tongue, panting and sucking the salt off his lips. "Fuck my mouth, Daddy. Fuck your little boy's throat. Please, Daddy." 

Daddy's thumb rubs against his swollen lips. "Such a dirty mouth on such a sweet boy." Then he's back, pushing in, holding down his teeth as he goes deeper. It burns and stretches, but it's a good feeling, the best, his Daddy giving him exactly what he needs. Daddy always gives him exactly what he needs. He has such a good Daddy. His Daddy gives him so much. 

He's in that place, that special place, where he is small and Daddy is there to take care of him, crushing weight and pressure and he can't breathe except the smell of his skin and it's so good Daddy so fucking good.

The pulses against his tongue slide past his tonsils and down his throat before he even has a proper taste, but that's okay, because he needs this, needs his medicine. Scott swallows, and swallows again, pulling hard and taking every drop he can. His belly feels full now, safe. The pain is gone. 

Daddy leans over, kissing Scott's forehead. "My best little boy," he whispers. 

Peace, unlike any he'd felt in years, comes over Scott. He feels small, and heavy, and tired, and complete. "Thank you, Daddy."

"Shh, just go to sleep. Daddy will take care of you." 

He's hard and he's drunk and his mouth will taste awful when he wakes up, but Scott closes his eyes, lets Herc tuck a blanket up around him. "G'nite," he whispers. 

"Good night, son." 

Scott hears the door unlock, open, close. Soft noises, and a cough. "...a migraine..." a deep voice is saying. "...drunk..." a higher voice is saying. "...Dad!" a bright squeal as forks and knives move against ceramic dishes. 

Then he is asleep.


End file.
